Usually the five or six laureates arrange to travel in company, and share expenses. A coach-driver agrees, for a modest sum, to take charge of this cargo of great men, and dump it down in Italy. As he never changes horses it takes a long time, and must be rather amusing.
I did not try it, as I had to stay in Paris for various reasons till the middle of January and then wished to go round by La Côte Saint-André—where my laurel wreath earned me a warm welcome—after which, alone, and dreary, I turned my face towards Italy.
To Humbert Ferrand.
“November 1830.—Just a few lines in haste to tell you that I am giving a gigantic concert at the Conservatoire—the Francs-Juges overture, the Sacred Song and Warrior’s Song from the Melodies, and Sardanapalus with one hundred performers for the Conflagration, and last of all, the Symphonie Fantastique.
“Come, oh, do come. It will be terrible. Habeneck conducts. The Tempest is to be played a second time at the Opera. It is new, fresh, strange, grand, sweet, tender, surprising. Fétis wrote two splendid articles on it for the Revue Musicale. Some one said to him the other day that I was possessed of a devil. ‘The devil may possess his body, but, by Jove! a god possesses his head,’ he retorted.
“December.—You really must come; I had a frantic success. They actually encored the Marche au Supplice. I am mad! mad! My marriage is fixed for Easter 1832, on condition that I do not lose my pension, and that I go to Italy for a year. My blessed symphony has done the deed, and won this concession from Camille’s mother.
“My guardian angel! for months I shall not see her. Why cannot I—cradled by the wild north wind upon some desolate heath—fall into the eternal sleep with her arms around me!”
To Ferdinand Hiller.
“La Côte Saint-André, January 1831.—I am at home once more, deluged with compliments, caresses, and tender solicitude by my family, yet I am miserable; my heart barely beats, the oppression of my soul suffocates me. My parents understand and forgive.
“I have been to Grenoble, where I spent half my time in bed, the other half in calling upon people who bored me to extinction. On my return I found awaiting me my longed-for letter from Paris.